Page 52 of Please, Sir

There’s some rustling on the line, and I envision Jake in that huge bed in his room, covers up to his waist, broad, muscled chest bare in the faint moonlight. My groin aches, empty and starved, just imagining him looking all sexy in bed while counseling me.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “that’s really shitty. At the end of life, people never say they wish they cared more about what people thought of them. They always say they wish they’d lived more for themselves, and worried less about what people thought. They’re making a mistake with you, Riley, and I’m sorry you’re going through this.”

The oranges on the tree grow blurry from his soft, kind words. “You’re a good parent,” I whisper.

He laughs softly and I can’t help but envision him stroking his hand through his dark hair, bicep muscle flexed. “It doesn’t feel that way,” he admits.

“It’s the age,” I tell him, glad to steer away from my woes for a moment. “Trust me, I’ve been teaching high schoolers for a few years now. They’re all kind of assholes to their parents.”

He sighs. “Still not used to it. Even when Jo Jo was in 8th grade, she was still such a sweetheart. It’s like they walk through those doors into the high school and a flip is switched, I swear.”

“I’m sorry. I mean, I know what being on the other side of that wrath is like, just from my students, and I’m sorry.” I chew the inside of my cheek a moment, nervous to press but also aware of the bonding that could come from him asking, so I press. “Did you ever ask Jo Jo about why she wanted to cheer this year?”

“Ah,” Jake says, “I haven’t. Not yet.”

“You should,” I tell him.

“I will,” he confirms, then, his voice softer, he says, “I’m sorry about your bummer night, Riley."

Inside my stomach, nerves and twinges of new desire flutter. “This phone call made it better.”

“Good,” he says, his rough voice melting over my body, making my nipples hard.

We talk for a few more minutes. I ask him about Turner Saddlery, then his booth at the market, and find out that his parents are alive but live thousands of miles away, and he’s an only child. He tells me that he grew up in Bluebell, and never plans to leave, and when I tell him I’m from Willowdale, he asks me if I know a cop friend of his named Christian, and after we run the roster of mutuals, I yawn and he tells me he doesn’t want me tired. We end the call with a simple and soft “goodnight” that feels like a French kiss and long hug.

When I close my eyes to fall asleep, my parents are the last thing on my mind.

CHAPTER

TWENTY

I still cannot believethat Rawley Colt likes me.

Rawley Colt, the cutest junior at Bluebell High. Likes me. Jolene Turner, the awkward cowgirl turned cheerleader. I hardly have boobs yet and he likes me!

Rolling over in bed, I snatch my phone from my nightstand and open it, surprised to see a text message from Peyton.

Ever since I became a cheerleader, Peyton andher sister Cassidy haven’t wanted much to do with me. I put myself in their shoes and try to imagine if I was still horseback riding and hanging out at home on Friday nights, and they were the ones who suddenly wanted to be beneath the lights, holding pom poms, screaming for boys who ignored them, giving up all the things they used to love.

I’d be the same way. I’d feel lost and hurt, and in recent weeks, I’ve been trying to explain myself to them. I’ve apologized, and I’m trying as hard as I can to make things right with us. I never meant to ditch them, but when they started to ignore me, I turned to cheer because I was hurt.

I never thought Alexa and Jasmine would be friends to me the way Peyton and Cassidy were. But not being alone is important, and they were there.

Peyton

Cassidy and I are going for donuts this morning. We can pick you up if you want to join?

Quickly, I jump out of bed and grab my jeans, jumping into them before I text her back.

Sounds good, I’ll be ready in ten!

Last night, over the phone, I told Peyton and Cassidy about the photo I found of my mom. I told them that in the last few years, I’ve missed her more than ever, and as much as my dad is around and in my business, I’ve longed for my mom. Even though I don’t remember her much, I’ve dreamed of having her here, helping me figure out how to wear my hair, how to talk to boys, how to make new friends, being able to talk to her about getting my period–all of it. They stayed quiet and listened, and I poured it all out to them.They didn’t say much after, but we exchanged apologies. A text about getting donuts gives me hope that I didn’t ruin things too badly, and that we can still be friends.

Excitedly, I tug on my Bluebell Bruisers hoodie, and step into my boots. I can’t wait to hear what I’ve missed in their lives, and equally I can’t wait to share what they’ve missed, starting with Rawley Colt.

In the kitchen, my dad is leaning against the counter, his favorite mug in his hand, steam rising from the surface.

“Morning, Jo Jo,” he greets.

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